


REDSH|FT

by kkamagui



Series: REDSH|FT [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20696855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkamagui/pseuds/kkamagui
Summary: Pallid, smoking and sparking like a storm, an unfathomable, boundless entity howls. It spills forth from the broken fuselage in a torrent of voidlight. It is confessing something dreadful, Byleth realizes, that he now understands.[HOW DARE YOU RETURN. DAMNED FELL STAR. YOUDAMNEDFELL STAR.]





	REDSH|FT

**Author's Note:**

> originally inspired by [fe3h joseon au](https://twitter.com/LUPATIER/status/1163560725274664960?s=20) for cyberpunk joseon.... now turned space opera au

* * *

A shadow stands still at the edge of Dock 8-1, BH wing, a good distance past the safety lights flashing red-blue-red-red-blue. Gravity boots keep them rooted to the surface where they hang silently. The suit’s safety strips are off, leaving the individual a lightless shape bathed in the dichotomy of neon warnings and the loneliness of space. 

Steadily, through the haze of artificial atmosphere and debris, the razor-fanged head of a turtle ship pierces the violet twilight gloom. The twin beams of its eyes flicker on at their lowest setting, flooding the empty port with cold light to reveal its lone marshaler. Closer the ship floats, photon oars appearing as a neat, swaying row of parallel comets. With every upward stroke the paddles briefly illuminate the characters painted over the hull: SA-5EUM. At a distance the battleship does not seem so threatening, but up close even a single oar dwarfs the unilluminated marshaler.

They begin stepping backward, glowing hands moving with flourishes that certainly do not exist in protocol. It would not be a stretch to say that the motions do not follow protocol at all. Even with the ship proceeding at such a slow pace, the marshaler bounds across the top of the port to keep from colliding with the shiphead, their every stride an impressive leap.

With barely a whisper, the ship slips beneath the metal roofing, slowing to a near crawl as the sides of the port shift to accomodate for its length. Magnetic bearings slide out from the supporting latticework and connect with a subtle hiss. No longer moving, SA-5EUM’s lights dim from low to completely off. The port is drowned once again in near-darkness save for the safety lights marking paths to the exits.

Starting from the hull, the ship’s underside metal plating slides toward the stern, heavy clanking plate by heavy clanking plate. The sound that fills the gateway is not unlike that of a slow and mechanical artillery fire. Once the scaled armor finishes peeling away, the cargo bay door at last opens with a soft hiss. The crew of the ship disembarks quietly, small dots casting immense shadows across the bay. 

Meant to house the biggest ships, the eighth tier of docking platforms are equipped with the weakest atmosphere and gravity generators. As such, the crew’s movements are buoyant, as though a single misstep will send them careening into orbit. Any sounds of footsteps are drowned out by the noise of the gates bearing shut. Overhead lights set the port awash with fluorescents as the port gates finish sealing off. The room starts to pressurize, but not quickly enough to forgo suits yet. Tiredly, the crew shuffles to the entryway flashing blue.

Once a majority of the crew has stepped in to the sanitization and depressurizing chambers, someone speaks to the lingering captain. “Nice driving,” comes a muffled, disconnected voice from above.

The marshaler, nose-to-nose with the turtle ship and back-to-back with the wall, disengages their gravity boots and promptly plummets from the ceiling. In a stunning show of acrobatics and performance, they twist at just the right moment to land silently, upright.

“Show off,” Claude calls. “I thought it might be you. Have you been taking marshalling lessons from Lorenz or something?”

“No,” says Byleth, reducing the UV screen so his face is visible through his visor. “Officially someone else—I forgot who—is manning this port. I didn’t tell them though.”

Claude smiles, his brilliant green eyes twinkling. “Snuck out for me?”

“I wanted to see you,” Byleth says earnestly. “It’s been a while since you last made an official visit to Garreg Mach territory.” The pressurizing system gives a loud beep and flashes twice. “You and the others are always so busy.”

“From what I’ve heard, you’ve been busy as well.” Claude begins walking toward the exit chambers, carrying casual conversation as though they aren’t having a months-awaited reunion. As silently as a ghost, Byleth follows.

Past the docking tower into the central commons, the hallways are quiet and fairly empty. This late into the night cycle, the only ones who are still awake tend to be those with a sincere lack of control over their sleep schedule or those in an unfortunate relationship with their work. The two of them pass by Linhardt muttering over one of the public log machines by Logistics, looking as though he is fairly about to keel over, several sweeper bots, and Lysithea poring over enough holoscreens to appear caged in a swath of glowing numbers and figures.

Eventually they reach the Observatory, housed at the southern pole of the station, an isolated expanse of polished titanium flooring and spotless chroma-glass. The central holodisplay view is currently an overall view of the station; numbers run long on the side, listing pressures, power distribution, engine and generator temperatures, and all the scientific nonsense Byleth has never had a strong interest in. He knows for a fact that Claude understands all of it but pretends not to.

Claude gives a long look at the holodisplay, then wrinkles his nose as he keys in a combination to change the view. It flickers to Lei-08, a planetary region two hundred clicks to the station’s four-o’clock that houses Claude’s territory. The satellites orbiting the GM station monitor the three dominant systems surrounding them as per the neutral treatise. Lei-08 in normal optics appears as a brilliant golden mass, replete with young and old stars alike. If one zoomed in close enough, they would be able to see the very distant green of the Almyran major cluster, depending on the storms forecast between the two areas.

“You still haven’t invited me over,” Byleth says, focused on the dot on the display where Claude technically lives.

“Maybe soon,” says Claude, toggling the display to quickly gloss over the Ad-01 and Fae-747 systems. Red and blue glow momentarily fill the Observatory before Claude finally settles on something that appears as a void. Perhaps only a few weeks ago, the region had been a new birthing ground for stars. The sudden emptiness of an area spanning more than fifty clicks in diameter is a concern for many. “I would rather visitations come after we figure out what this is, though.”

With a small sigh, Byleth sinks into a nearby chair, staring at the vastness of nothing. “We have people looking into it.”

“Which means that you haven’t found out much either,” says Claude. He rubs at his chin, expression one of deep concern.

“We’ve tried scouting out the area,” Byleth says, conveniently leaving out the fact that he had actually gone out on an unapproved excursion and caused quite an uproar. “Whatever is out there interferes with every possible signal we know and use. We had to perform emergency extraction after the pilot ejected.”

“The pilot was unhurt?”

“Thankfully.”

“Were they able to give us any further details?”

Byleth pauses, exhaling in a thoughtful hum. “If anything, I... It’s rather difficult to explain.”

Claude’s focused expression softens into something akin to relief and knowing. “Glad that you’re safe, Teach.”

“The scout we sent before didn’t actually come back. Their emergency broadcast got cut short and Rhea didn’t want to risk sending another out only to lose them too,” says Byleth after a long sigh. So much for keeping secrets. He should know better than to try and fool Claude’s intuition. “So I went to retrieve them.”

“Can’t imagine Rhea would have been pleased with your decision.” Claude toggles once more with the controls, seeming to distract himself in the scrolling diagnostics. At his former instructor’s silence, however, he pauses and turns, one eyebrow raised high. “Unless?”

Byleth does not feel _ guilty_, per say. It is one thing to have an omniscient AI running the entirety of the station, but it is another to have it try controlling his whereabouts at all times. He has turned to some of his former students with a tad more influence and control over their own facilities and asked for assistance.

He leans in close, tapping at Claude’s hand. The captain, understanding the need for discreteness, obeys and lets Byleth scribble a message onto his open palm. 

Back before the station had fully stabilized and spies from smaller clusters were in all its nooks and crannies, Byleth had developed a tactile language of sorts. So many of the people here are equipped with hardware that could easily be hacked, whether it be by Rhea’s overwhelming cyber presence, or someone with ill intentions. All of the students under his guidance had picked up on the code, which is really just an adapted form of ancient script that Byleth can understand, for whatever reason.

_ Dimitri provided new ship_, he quickly scribbles, message leaving faint cyan trails that quickly dissipate. _ Fitted with best upgrades and nav. Custom-built and all manual_. _ Even has a stealth drive_.

Claude’s smiles widely, like he is baring his teeth around a laugh struggling to escape. He ends up letting out a small, incredulous chuckle. “No _ way_. You convinced _ him _ of all people?”

“Believe it or not.”

“You’re becoming such a regular criminal,” Claude jokes, bumping Byleth’s shoulder with his own. “Better be more careful, Teach. I’m swooning.”

“Anyways. I’ve been busy.” Byleth gesticulates at the holodisplay. It is an ominous view, but the empty stretch of blackness soothes his tired eyes somewhat.

“I’ll say.”

Though Claude smiles again, Byleth can tell it is a tired one. The poor captain has been traveling for the better part of a synodic month to reach the station, and artificial chamber sleep is a far cry from actual bedrest. Especially since Claude has been shuttling to and from Almyra for diplomacy’s sake, traversing around the magnetar trench doubles his time on the ship. Raising his hand, Byleth gives Claude’s cheek a gentle pat.

“You should get some rest. It’s already two hours into the new day cycle.”

“I’m a grown adult and know how to regulate my own sleep schedule,” grumbles Claude, leaning into the touch. “Differences in synodic day cycles won’t triumph _ me_.”

“No, but your stalling processors will. Come on. I’ll walk you to your quarters.”

The two of them leave the Observatorium, hip to hip, triggering the room reset as they step past the doors. Numbers continue to trickle down floating holopanes, the dark display behind them flickering back to its default view of the station and filling the chambers with serene blue glow. The only secrets spoken have not been heard by anyone, and remain clenched tightly within Claude’s palm.

* * *

“Boar,” says Felix, tossing a cube in Dimitri’s direction. As though he has eyes in the back of his head, which is _ not _ an upgrade he has chosen to have done, Dimitri catches the projectile easily, eyes still turned toward his reports. Even in the disquiet of the zero-gravity training chambers, he navigates the space with a casual ease that suggests immense control over his movements, no matter the gravity levels.

It isn’t untrue.

“You came to see me,” Dimitri says, wrapping up his stretches and facing Felix. He pushes off the far wall, curling his body so his feet are level with the ground entrance, and lands lightly.

“To spar,” Felix corrects. “Not to chat.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

Dimitri thumbs along the cube’s edges, letting his power flow out and into dormant circuitry. The geometric storage gradually unfolds, adjusting to fit his personal grip and strength parameters. After a few seconds the cube has transformed entirely, taking the form of a simple, weighty weapon fashioned after traditional moon blades.

Felix too has activated his own weapon, fresh from the stock of specialized training cubes that change daily. He prefers fighting with sabers, which are lighter and better suited for speed, but is not half bad at wielding a woldo. Dimitri does not comment on the change of pace and instead settles into a low guarding stance. It is one that Felix has seen many times before: the boar will dive in low, then jump with terrifying speed from one wall to the next and plummet like a terrible comet, his blade plunged deep into his prey’s heart.

He is not foolish enough to block an overhead attack dead on. After parrying the initial blow, Felix careens to the side, using the bladeless end of his weapon to stop his collision. Felix dashes up the east wall, reversing trajectory when he feels Dimitri coming from his nine-o’clock. The poles of their weapons meet with enough force that Felix’s can feel his jaw vibrate. The force of impact sends him backward, but Dimitri has already adjusted his weight and begun pursuing.

_ Clang! _

The blade of Dimitri’s moon blade meets the wall, a mere handbreadth from Felix’s shoulder. White sparks flicker in his peripheral. He would curse, but wasting his breath on expletives can cost him more than just a theoretical arm in this space.

To any onlookers, the two of them zoom around the zero-grav arena with enough speed that they appear but as blurs and light streaks of their Signatures and weapons. On certain days, an interested observer might find the training room calibrated to one-point-three Gs, average Leicesteran gravity. On others, when Felix is feeling particularly antsy, the arena’s G levels randomize every few minutes. There are only a handful of soldiers who like to keep up with his intense training regimen.

Fifteen standardized minutes pass before Dimitri finally nicks Felix in the side. The blades are not real, but the contact unbalances Felix enough that he soon finds his back against a wall, chin tilted up to avoid scraping against Dimitri’s weapon. Dimitri’s Signature crackles with thunderous intensity, looking like a crooked crown and throwing the entirety of his face into blue-lit chaos. For a moment the boar’s eyes are bright steel, narrowed with the thirst for battle. It soon clears, though, along with his Signature. He gives a close-lipped smile as he points the luminous blade elsewhere. Then he straightens his back so that his body no longer casts a shadow over Felix.

“Took you damn long enough,” Felix says, grunting as he accepts Dimitri’s assisting hand. They float from the far end back toward the entrance, hovering just above ground level, and technically upside-down. “Fifteen whole minutes. You’re getting rusty.”

“You should come see me more often,” Dimitri says lightly. “Maybe I would be able to get more practice in.”

Felix scowls and deactivates his weapon. When it has shrunk down to its small, unassuming shape once more, it looks as though he is strongly considering chucking the thing at Dimitri’s head.

He does so. Dimitri ducks.

“The professor has been contacting me,” Dimitri says and pauses for effect, ducking again as the cube returns from its sudden journey across the room. His blond hair sweeps past the brilliance of his eyes, hiding them for just a moment before floating aimlessly again. He deactivates his own weapon and tosses it to match the trajectory of Felix’s. He catches them, fingers spread wide around the platinum edges.

“So?”

“I’ve supplied him with his own stealth ship. The station headmaster doesn’t seem to want him going out on any excursions.”

“Hm.”

Felix starts drifting to the door, fiddling with the training cubes with a sort of tension that betrays his dull expression. The disappearance of such a significant portion in the southern sector is a universal concern among all three of the major systems. He _ usually _ is not the sort to care for the mutability of intragalactic affairs, but he had been a student of the professor’s once, too. 

Once he reaches the doorway, Felix looks Dimitri in the eye. “Then I’ll go as an emissary. With or without your approval.” 

Looking slightly amused, Dimitri nods. His eyes glimmer under the shadow of the doorway, pulsing an electric sort of blue than Felix often cannot bear to look at for long. Not when he remembers how they did not used to glow like starsdamned novae. “I was planning on sending you on one, so it’s good to hear that you’re willing. Professor Byleth would be glad to have your assistance.” He is so close, now. Felix would have to tilt his head up for proper eye contact, but he settles instead for glaring at an armored shoulder instead. In a lower voice, Dimitri adds, “I believe he has regular contact with Leicester as well. We should also do our best to deliver our share of outside intel.”

WIth a noncommittal noise, Felix finishes moving into the adjustment chambers, not checking to see whether Dimitri is behind him before he shuts the door and activates the gravity adjuster. He slowly feels the weight in his body coming back to him and sways in place for a bit to adjust back to the feeling of a consistent downward pull. By the time he feels prepared to actually walk, Dimitri has already stepped over to the entrance console. Another display of his unnaturally speedy acclimatization.

Dedue is, naturally, waiting for their return in the debriefing room. Through the window, the view of Fhirdiad’s icy land stretches out in the distance, spotted with bright points and webs of citywork. It is late in the Faerghan day cycle and their sun has begun to set, chased in the horizon by Fhirdiad’s twinned moons.

“Your Highness,” Dedue says solemnly. Though he wrinkles his nose at the formality, Felix stays quiet. Listens as he stares out at the sunset in all its blue, bleeding glory.

“Just my name, Dedue,” repeats Dimitri, for what must be at least the ten-thousandth time in his life. “What do you have to report?”

Tilting his head down, Dedue offers the holoscreen he is holding. “The Gautier head has noted some insurgent forces just outside the Sreng belt. As such, Sylvain has been dispatched to the outer planets.” Dimitri scrolls through the report, frowning. “The Fraldarius head has also asked for assistance in the meantime, just until they can verify that the threat is minimal.”

Sometimes, Felix dearly wishes he could go rogue. No one to answer to, nothing tying him to the small, frosty terrain of the binary Gautier and Fraldarius planets. He does not voice these desires, though, and instead answers Dedue’s report with a short, angry sigh.

“I’ll send Ingrid in your stead,” Dimitri says as a means of comfort. He tries to catch Felix’s gaze, but is met with stubborn silence and a cold shoulder. “The professor will understand, Felix.”

“I _ know_,” Felix mutters, striding to the exit. “I’m going to prepare. Don’t expect me to be here tomorrow.”

* * *

The inner Fódlan interstellar cloud is, for the most part, under the control of three dominant powers. The Adrestrian, Faerghus, and Leicester systems surround the neutral Garreg Mach territory in a splendid ring of red-blue-gold. Toward the edge of the Faerghan planets, the Sreng meteoroid belt separates Faerghus from the Sreng minor cluster. Similarly, the Leicester Alliance territory is cut short by the magnetar trench separating it from the Almyran major cluster. With guard stations posted around within safe distance of magnetic decay, the two are at an impasse, wanting to expand but unable to easily traverse such dangerous space.

Tradeways between the three systems have been relatively peaceful, occasionally interrupted with rogue forces that are subdued easily. Recently however, close to the edge Adrestrian-Leicester boundary, a yawning emptiness discourages any sort of trade along formerly bustling routes. Most traffic in the lower regions of the Fódlan cloud has halted, leaving many hyperjump stations and nearby fueling stops without their usual hubbub of travelers.

Rhea, in spite of her immense wealth of knowledge, either knows nothing about the strange development, or is keeping all the information hidden from everyone else. Considering the influence she has in maintaining the station and the holistic control over communications and security, _ and _ the fact that she has been around since the initial creation of the Garreg Mach station—there must be _ something _ that the AI knows. 

Byleth has been beside himself with delegations and assignments and all the sort of work he had never had to deal with as a simple mercenary. His father is gone, now, but Byleth often wonders whether the work he does would make his old man proud. He misses long flights in less densely populated clusters; one would be able to fly straight for hours with nothing but the company of distant stars and the occasional radio of passing traffic. It has probably been at least a year since he had been on a flight longer than just a couple of hours.

With a heavy sigh, Byleth reviews the information Claude had brought over. Although the newly named Dead Zone had started out as a small, barely noticeable disappearance of a new star, its growth would soon span an area larger than the Brigid minor cluster. It does not seem to be growing any larger, thank the stars, but as to _ what _ it could be… all of them are stumped.

Lysithea gnaws at her fingers, feverishly poring over text after text. She has been corresponding with the Adrestrian scholar Linhardt, albeit reluctantly, to study the stellar activity of the region and trying to find any abnormalities aside from the obvious.

The obvious: a star birthing ground, well on its way to becoming its own cluster, has been all but eradicated. Any communication sent out comes back as a corrupted, garbled mess, causing enough auditory trauma that they do not try to do that anymore.

Graciously, Claude has agreed to twice-daily scouting at Byleth’s request. No longer an official student of the station academy, he is not beholden to Rhea’s suggestions of playing things safe.

_ Not too close_, Byleth has warned, gripping Claude’s wrist meaningfully. 

_ Wouldn’t dream of it, Teach_. 

“Let’s take a break,” Ingrid offers, just a tad upset that she cannot provide any more analytics support, but Dimitri has assured her she would be more assistance in that field than Felix would have been. “I believe we have reviewed enough material for the time being. Perhaps some time away from the screens will help refresh our energy.”

In a dramatic gesture, Lysithea throws her holoscreen upward where the blue pane hangs in suspension. She drags both of her palms down her face, on the verge of letting out a very exasperated, very tired groan.

“I really feel that,” says Byleth in a flat voice. Laughter echoes in the back of his mind, chiding him to be more expressive.

“None of it makes sense!” Lysithea all but whines. “All of the records indicate that there was no abnormal activity whatsoever before the Dead Zone just _ appeared_. How does a star just vanish overnight? With no lingering radiation whatsoever? No indication of surge or dip in electromagnetic activity?”

The chart with varying lines of activity shines down imperiously from its newly elevated position. While the graph runs within completely normal parameters for all the stars within a given radius, any and all of the activity truncates upon reaching a certain point. Two standard months and five standard days ago, at 0300 hours.

“At that close of proximity, a collapse would have been very obvious. The only star remotely close to that condition isn’t even inside of the local Fódlan cloud, though.”

“It’s not a black hole, either,” says Lysithea, sullen, perhaps slightly cranky from lack of sugar as well.

Byleth seems to notice Ingrid fidgeting in place so he offers a small smile, tapping on Lysithea’s arm.

“Go get something to eat with Ingrid, Lysithea,” he says. “We can meet again to go over numbers and whatnot, but we _ have _ been at this for hours. The information isn’t going anywhere.”

Although she grumbles, the analyst waves the holoscreen back down and sets it neatly on the desk strewn with all sorts of work. With another wave of the hand, all of the holoscreens she has out straighten into one neat pile, flattening with a soft hiss into a singular panel. She pockets the data and waves to Byleth before she leaves.

Now alone in the Observatory, Byleth sinks backward into this chair, slumping so that his body slides down the smooth surface and he is but a vaguely human-shaped puddle on the floor. The chair initially tries to compensate for the redistribution of body weight, only returning to its default settings when Byleth loses all physical contact with it.

[YOU HAVE BEEN WORKING VERY DILIGENTLY], Rhea’s voice echoes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Her voice is slightly mechanical but kind. At times, it seems as though she is merely some sort of deity pretending to be an AI. Byleth knows for sure that no AI has ever been able to handle the sheer amount of tasks and management that Rhea can. Or even come so remarkably close to sounding like a real person.

It bothers him, still. His father had never quite approved of the AI. Byleth is still working on decoding the remains of the physical diary left behind. Half of it is left; from what he can understand, there is a good reason for the distrust. 

“No breakthroughs yet,” he says from his miserable pile on the ground. Rhea’s presence marks the central holodisplay with saturated green light.

[MANY PEOPLE ARE CONCERNED OVER THE PHENOMENON. ANY AND ALL WORK IS GREATLY APPRECIATED.]

“If you know anything, or find anything out,” Byleth starts.

[YOU WILL BE THE FIRST TO KNOW.]

“Oh, okay. Good.”

Byleth lays there in silence, unsure how else to continue such a conversation. The green light does not go away.

[YOU MISS YOUR FATHER?]

The sudden inquiry is both a question and not. Byleth could swear that the AI sounds _ accusatory_. It bothers him more that the question had come after his brief thoughts of Jeralt, too.

“I believe there is still much I could have learned from him,” Byleth says, wondering if a supposed AI could ever truly understand death. After all, in a literal sense, they are but numbers in the stream of data. And what is the purpose of Rhea asking him years after the incident? “But I suppose dwelling on how he may have helped is fruitless labor at present.”

[IF YOU EVER NEED ANYONE TO TALK ABOUT HIS PASSING], says Rhea, and all at once Byleth is hit with a sudden wave of crushing animosity, as though some god has deemed fit to stuff him full of an emotion he does not fully understand. His chest feels tight. [YOU NEED BUT CALL FOR ME.]

“Of course,” he forces through his teeth. The static that accompanies Rhea’s presence lifts from the room, signalling that she has left him alone for the time being. Listening, perhaps, but no longer _ here_.

He sits up wearily, a dark stain on the otherwise clean and flawless stretch of titanium. For a moment Byleth considers going to take a nap, but decides that perhaps a breath of fresh air is in order. He will not go _ too _ far, of course; although he would be taking the unregistered ship, Rhea would surely notice his lack of presence after long. She is very diligent in monitoring his logs.

The commons are not nearly as busy as the days when the station had still been an academy, but there are enough people milling about the Byleth is surprised at the liveliness. The three surrounding systems have been sending former students as visiting emissaries of sorts, both to maintain good relations with the others, but also to ensure that nothing foul has overrun Garreg Mach.

“Professor,” Mercedes greets him as he passes through the canteen. “Are you quite all right?”

“Nap,” he says, then stops in place, realising he should probably provide more explanation. Only Claude has mastered the art of translating Byleth’s one-word statements into full sentences. “I’ve been working with some others to analyze data. Just got out for a break.”

Mercedes shifts some of the food in her arms to hold out a doughnut wrapped in a napkin. “Well, please don’t work yourself too hard; I’m sure the solution is out there somewhere.” She smiles when Byleth takes a huge bite into the doughnut immediately. “And where would we be without our professor?”

“Hopefully taking over the station in my name,” Byleth says as solemnly as he can with a mouth full of doughnut. Mercedes laughs, patting him on the arm, and lets him go.

He takes the emergency staircase up to the docks, not trusting the elevators to not catch him on camera and thus report the feed to Rhea. It feels just a tad strange trying to avoid her when she likely does not mean anything _ bad _by her vigilance, but he just has the feeling that she is hiding significant truths from him. Truths about him, in any case.

Though he does not plan on going out for a very long flight, Byleth decides to change fully into his old gear: a simple but personalized combat suit that has seen much wear, no embellishments. Just raw functionality. The matte chrome finish keeps the appearance simple, and the carbon fiber material fits snugly around his body. Should the weather turn to any extremes, the sturdy temperature regulating cloak around his shoulders can serve as a shield and emergency power supply. Exposed half-decorative circuitry runs in glowing violet rivulets down the seams of his arms and legs, but the true purpose lies in assisting motor control and speed. His boots make standard issue grav-boots seem like a toddler’s toy moon shoes. 

Dagger in his belt, weapon cube integrated into his gauntlets, plasma pistol in its thigh holster. Every fastening movement is achingly familiar. He sits just for a moment, drinking in the press and tightness of his suit. Without good reason to leave on missions, Byleth has missed the sensation of battle and danger at his fingertips. His old gear reminds him so much of it.

With a motion of finality, Byleth activates his helmet. The black cover extends from his collar and around his head, powering on its AR vision as he heads to dock 8-1. With Claude’s permission, he has taken to storing his newly acquired ship within SA-5EUM’s shuttle bay, just for extra precautions.

When he tries to open the dock gate, an automated voice stops him.

_ This ship is not scheduled for departure. _

“Override 056 Green,” says Byleth, excitement kicking up as he realizes that he is actually going out to fly. “Just doing some routinely checkups and test runs on the shuttles.” SA-5EUM’s shuttle bay hisses open, and he hurries into his ship as the automated voice confirms the override and starts rattling off standard safety protocol.

When Byleth takes off, heart singing, the ship’s jump drive is no louder than a hum.

* * *

“Of all people to work with,” Felix says, arms crossed. He is decked out head-to-toe in battle gear. Cuts a sleek black figure sharper than any blade. Prepared for the worst, as always.

“I’m not the one who asked for your help,” Sylvain responds, then pushes off the counter where he had been overlooking diagnostics. He grins at Felix, arms spread wide open. The stars and black space spin endlessly behind him as they patrol just outside of the Gautier-Fraldarius fortress orbit, ships merged for ease of access. They are using Sylvain’s Lancer ship as the main headquarters, as it houses more than the bare minimum in terms of inventory, space, and weaponry. Most other crew has retired for their nightly rest, leaving them alone on the ship’s bridge. “That being said, I am _ so _ glad you came to see me.”

“To _ work_,” Felix corrects stubbornly. “Against my own wishes.”

“How’s loverboy?” 

Stock still, Felix turns his glare directly on Sylvain. His piercing amber gaze would be terrifying if Sylvain were not so used to it. “What.”

“Oh, y’know,” Sylvain continues. “The _ only _ other person who genuinely enjoys your stars awful grav-resistance training.”

Felix remains dead silent and unmoving. For a moment Sylvain thinks that he may have overstepped his bounds _ too _ far and is about to steer the conversation somewhere else, when Felix responds with a terse: “He’s fine.”

Sylvain’s grin is so wide his cheeks hurt. Though he would love to press the issue more, they are on a mission, and he _ does _ know how to separate work and play. He turns back to the charts before him, which are transparent enough that he can see past data into the stunning view of Gautier-Fraldarius territory. The twin planets are equally icy and harsh in their terrain. A majority of their planetary bodies consist of frozen-nitrogen seas and great catena, but the people have adapted to living within specially built cities. From this distance, their blue sun is but a small dot, barely casting its cool light over the cold planets. He toggles the view to the hulking gray fortress and its satellites, confirming that there is no red activity there either. Not that any is very likely, but the Gautier head loves expending resources on security.

About eighty clicks out lies the Sreng meteoroid belt. It is so dense with inert rock and ship debris alike that even the most experienced of quick-time navigators would be hard pressed to pass through it. There are no hyperjump stations heading outward from the Gautier-Fraldarius binary, so all the navigation would have to be manual. Difficult, but not impossible like the magnetar trench flanking the Leicester system.

From what Sylvain can gather, their visitors from Streng are also curious about the disturbance in Fódlan, which indicates either some spy activity, or rats. There has not been any attempt to engage at least, and the few Sreng ships have taken to keeping fairly close to the asteroid belt. He has had the uncomfortable realization that the Srengian’s are able to navigate the clutter of the asteroids with relative ease, which means that the lack of obvious travel between the Sreng minor cluster and Faerghus system is a _ choice _ on their end.

“How long do we have to monitor them,” Felix says, scrolling down an activity log. From the distant look in his eyes, Sylvain can tell that he is not paying much attention to the information in front of him. Felix has been distracted ever since stepping foot onto the Lancer ship, grumbling about being whisked away on a less important mission because of filial obligations. Perhaps he does not say it, but Sylvain is getting the feeling that Felix is slightly worried about their former professor, upset at not being able to assist Dimitri, or both.

Probably both.

“Until we can confirm they aren’t going to try and attack,” Sylvain says. “Which can mean a lot of things, but I am going to guess our fathers don’t want us to open fire first.”

Felix grunts his assent. He toggles the power flow in his right gauntlet on and off, feeling the need to do something. Unfortunately for him, this Lancer ship does not have any training facilities; he thinks it a huge flaw in the design, as that was the very first thing he had made sure existed in the blueprint plans for his ship before production. While Felix’s ship is geared more for speed and stealth, however, Sylvain’s has a higher max cargo load and holds better defensively.

Either way, he feels impatient. He would materialize his weapon if it were not for the fact that it might disrupt the hardware around him. Sylvain would snark at him about it too. He strongly considers abandoning Sylvain to his nightly duties and egressing to his ship to train.

“They’ve been watching us for the better part of a week,” Felix says, leaning against the control console with one hip. “With no signs of hostile activity.”

The Srengian ships are not visible to the naked eye from here, blending into the darkness of empty space. On the infrared displays, however, five small ships hover about three and a half clicks outside the asteroid belt. Sylvain and Felix have combined command over three other accompaniment ships and the fortress to fall back to, so it is not like they are outnumbered. They are, however, much closer to a risky clash on home territory.

As of now, they are merely waiting. Unless Sreng technology has improved drastically, the ships will eventually run out of fuel. The stakeout will end, and they can report back to their home bases before returning to Fhirdiad. Easy, if not boring, business.

“We’ve done what we can to indicate the lack of hostile activity. It’s up to the brass to give us orders.”

Felix gnaws at his lower lip, clearly bothered. He gets that look whenever he is considering breaking the rules. Sylvain would know; he often gets caught up in the rule-breaking, too.

“All right, dear friend,” he says in his smoothest, most saccharine voice. Half of the time if he doesn’t sound like he is begging, Felix will not listen to him. “Won’t you _ please _ give me the honor of telling me what is on your mind?”

For once, Felix does not bite Sylvain’s head off at the word _ friend _, which is another indicator to the seriousness of his thoughts. The ship slides behind the shadow of the hulking fortress station, shrouding them in shadow that, combined with the glow from the holodisplays, throws the line of Felix’s jaw into sharp relief. Sylvain lets out a slow breath, trying not to whistle. 

He is going to say something again when the main display lights up jarring red with an urgent message. Felix slams the receiver with his fist before Sylvain can react. Both of them are surprised to see Dimitri pop up as a hologram, and all at once Sylvain can see Felix’s nerves running abound and wild. 

“You,” Felix says after moment, voice tight.

“Stars,” Dimitri says, sounding breathless. He has a hand tangled in his hair, one foot tapping the ground as though he is trying desperately not to pace. “Thank stars you picked up quickly. I need, I need you to come back Felix, Sylvain. I just got an emergency transmission from Claude that the professor has disappeared and I...” He breaks off, swallowing, head tilted downward. The blond sheet of his hair covers his eyes, tangled between his gauntleted fingers.

Felix is painfully silent. After a few tense seconds, he says in a very heavy voice, “I cannot abandon this post.”

“I—I understand. You have your orders, after all.” Dimitri nods, then opens his mouth to say something self-sabotaging, most likely.

“Actually, Felix,” Sylvain interrupts. “I can cover for you. The fortress is by no means short on manpower, and I have other ships to commandeer in the event of any conflict. The only person who will miss you here is me.”

Dimitri cannot see him since he is out of the hologram’s sensing range, but he recognizes Sylvain’s voice immediately. His smile is so genuine and relieved that it sends a sharp twist of emotion right through Sylvain’s gut. “Would you really, Sylvain? I do not wish to impose—”

“Don’t make me listen to his voice any more than I have to,” Felix says to Dimitri. He is already jogging toward his quarters to pack up. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Send me the debrief before I arrive.” He disappears behind steel elevator doors, and Sylvain is alone on the bridge. Holograms aside. 

“Sylvain,” says Dimitri hesitantly, not ending the transmission yet.

“Dimitri,” echoes Sylvain. “What exactly happened?”

A slow, long-suffering sigh. Sylvain does not move to make himself visible, so Dimitri settles for clasping his hands behind his back, eyes trained on the ground. Now that some of the urgency has passed, the tension lingering in his shoulders has lessened just a bit. “The professor has been working with some of our peers to analyze data on the sudden Dead Zone. Apparently Lysithea and our Ingrid were working with him last, but...” He runs a nervous hand through his hair again. It is unkempt, as though he has been fussing but trying not to tear it out. “Over two standard days have passed since last contact with the GMS. Claude has been surveying every bit of space around the area with no response.”

It makes sense, then, that Felix is being called back. His Signature synchro with his ship is best suited for retrieval and combat in dead spaces where others would suffer irreparable electromagnetic corruption. Sylvain’s own is better on the defensive front, but fares poorly in radiation-heavy locale.

“I am sure you will find the professor unharmed,” he says. “Send me the reports also. Once I’ve wrapped up the mission here, I will jump to the station and assist.”

“Thank you, Sylvain.” Dimitri bows. When he straightens up again, he is looking at nothing in particular, but seems to have pinpointed Sylvain’s location well enough to give him pseudo-eye contact. Sylvain flinches. “Sincerely, I thank you. I hope to see you soon as well.”

The transmission cuts. Sylvain drags a hand down his face and sighs.

* * *

Even at breakneck speeds, Byleth’s new ship flies so smoothly and silently that he finds himself checking to make sure the drives are not actually off. He has been on ships with stealth drives before, but those had often been either salvaged from scraps or built by his and his father’s own hands. He makes a mental note to thank Dimitri again, later. The stealth drive allows him to slip past even military-grade patrol ships without being detected.

Thankfully he has travelled the past few hours without incident, cutting through Adrestrian territory and skirting around guard stations where necessary. It is well into the night cycle at GMS so his absence can be explained with the white lie of a well-regulated sleep schedule. 

Since the ship is unregistered, Byleth weaves through routes of the system he remembers from his mercenary days. Taking an unregistered ship of this caliber into a hyperjump station will most certainly get him arrested, and he would also have to explain to Rhea why exactly he owns an unauthorized vehicle. 

The Dead Zone is only five clicks away now. Both Leicester and Adrestria forces are stationed in a loose semi-circle exactly four clicks away from its edge. Any closer and ship systems start failing. The drives go first, leaving the ship unable to move. Then the shields, then the power generators and gunnery. The edges of the ship will start to fray, as though being dipped in acid, then disappear entirely. Byleth remembers the remains of the pilot’s ship from a few weeks back, crumbling apart before his eyes as its owner had been recovering from shock in the main cabin.

He hedges closer to the Dead Zone, remaining clear of a Leicester scouting ship and noting its broadcasting and receiving frequencies. With great apprehension, he sets the feedback volume to minimum and sends out a basic broadcast to the Dead Zone. The pilot’s reported had described a chaotic feedback loop, unbearable enough to cause immediate panic. The folly of his actions is not lost on him, but Byleth is _ curious_, and above all, desperate for a lead.

The broadcast echoes back immediately. To his immense surprise it is silent, and then it is a whisper. He gingerly turns the volume up one unit, and one more when he still cannot make out the noise.

_ Closer_…

Alarmed, Byleth turns the volume up again.

_ You… Closer _ — _ Come closer… You… Closer _ — _ Come Closer… You… Closer _—

The voice is eerie, warbly and dissonant in a way that suggests a human tone has been lain over something distinctly alien and unknown. He feels at once wary, trying to ignore the way his skin prickles with gooseflesh. Before him is a vast emptiness that seems endless from his close, void of any star or light. None of the reports have mentioned catching visuals on any of the scanners, but… 

There, in extreme ultraviolet frequency view, hovers a large and very, _ very _ familiar ship. Byleth glances between the display and the view before him. It is unmistakably the same grappler ship that has torn his father’s to shreds. His grip is white-knuckled over the thrust.

Static crackles over the radio, frantic and frenetic with the cacophony of multiple voices speaking at once.

_ Something on the radar— _

_ —Aberrant sighted on EUV scanners— _

_ —The hell is that— _

_ —Communication is still _ not _ authorized— _

Byleth can see the flare of gunnery powering up on other ships. Cannons angle to point in his general direction, but not at _ him_. Slowly, in the black gloom, the grappler ship fizzles into visible frequency, painted garish orange and black. He is very close to the enemy ship, Byleth realizes suddenly, well within range of fire and also as an unauthorized presence. Those cannons may very well be aimed at him.

_ Closer_— _ Come closer_—

The grappler ship jets forward abruptly. An orange whip extends and hooks directly onto the hull of Byleth’s ship as he swears. He quickly deactivates the stealth drive and jams the thrust lever forward, feeling the engines straining beneath him. Two more grappler hooks sink into his ship, the impact feeling like staccato punctuation through the rumbling. More noise joins over the radio, muddling into a single sound that sounds awfully like a scream.

The scream cuts short. Byleth finds both himself and the ship careening forward and into the blackness.

Disjointed laughter. There are voices, incomprensible. Pain blooming in his skull, stars exploding behind his eyelids. He is floating in his seat, held in place by safety belts but not tethered by artificial gravity. Byleth should not be able to even _ breathe _ if the atmosphere and gravity drives have failed. He lifts his hand before his face but sees nothing. Turns his head left and right: nothing. Looks down. Green light pulses at his chest, like a heartbeat.

[FOOLISH. FOOLISH CHILD.]

He tries to speak. The voice is not Rhea. It sounds familiar and sad, the same as the one he has heard in his dreams. Never before has it sounded so clear and terrible.

[YOU WOULD TRAP YOURSELF HERE, KNOWING THE WORLD WILL MOVE ON WITHOUT YOU?]

_ No_, he thinks. _ There is still so much to do_.

The light is so bright, almost blinding. He closes his eyes, but finds that it will not leave him. Unbearable, horrible, agonizing fire crawls through his being. He might be shaking. He might be screaming. He is so terrified that it is hard to tell.

[YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU ARE.] The voice roars. [DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MUST BECOME?]

_ More_, Byleth thinks dazedly through the heat haze. _ More_? The breathtaking view of red-blue-novae-death-universe-dreadful-hideous-god-star-creator-dichotomy-monstrosity overtakes his vision. _ You. I must become you_.

The green fire laughs and devours him. Unmakes him.

* * *

* * *

A full day passes from the initial report of a Dead Zone anomaly as well as the unauthorized ship, now vanished.

Rhea is beside herself, and rooms all around the Garreg Mach station are filled with emerald glow from her hypervigilance. From outside, the station appears overtaken by an incandescent green blaze. It is the first time any of the former students have seen the AI so visibly distraught. She has already chastised Claude for _ daring _ to go against her direct orders. 

They set up a temporary base of operations on RELIC-3, a mini-fortress detached from Garreg Mach’s main body with astounding combat capability and maneuverability. Rhea observes and gives orders from the bridge and the war council room, directing all camera feeds toward the Dead Zone.

Felix has been skirting the edge of too-close of the Dead Zone boundary for the better part of the day hours. He comes back exhausted from another round, jittery from synchro overexertion and an oncoming migraine, and rests for an hour before leaving again. Or trying to. Dimitri stops him before he can go out on his fourth stretch in a row.

“You must rest, Felix.”

“I know my limits,” Felix snaps. His Signature is fully materialized, encasing his left arm in what looks like golden, transparent holo armor. It glitches every now and then, a clear indication of his fatigue.

“I am sure you do,” Dimitri says in that deep, sorrowful voice of his. He understands, and is frustrated that he himself is not equipped to go out for deep-dive searching. “But I am ordering you to take some time to rest.”

Letting out a noise like a growl, Felix is about to push past when Dimitri’s hand falls onto his shoulder. “Felix,” he says sadly. Whether by conscious effort or not, his eyes flicker that terrible shocking blue again. Felix looks away, jaw clenched, and sinks back onto his heels. He seems to consider how to best insult Dimitri before deciding it is not worth the effort. He physically removes Dimitri’s hand from his shoulder and turns on his heel. Instead of heading to the ship’s sleeping wing, he stomps toward the infirmary to treat his impending migraine. 

Claude sidles up to Dimitri on the bridge, smiling despite everything. “We’ve found the remains of a ship outside the Dead Zone. Not the professor’s,” he adds quickly at Dimitri’s panicked expression. “It’s a grappler ship. Orange. The professor mentioned it in the missive on, well. The assignment which his father passed away.”

“I know you two want to catch up,” says Edelgard from behind. Her voice is severe, but only in the way that suggests her seriousness regarding the situation, not at them. “But updates just came in. The professor’s ship appeared without warning a minute ago, within range of safe retrieval. We’ve confirmed vital signs onboard, but we don’t have the specifics yet. Hubert is retrieving the ship now.”

“Right,” Claude says, at the same time Dimitri blurts, “I’ll go help.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Edelgard chides. “Hubert can handle the radiation well and Dorothea is on medical standby. We should do another run of numbers to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

While Claude pulls up his own holoscreen to thumb through the choppy reports, Dimitri cranes his neck to peer outside. The black VESTRA flies in slowly, dragging the remains of the grappler ship on one end, and the professor’s intact ship on the other. Strangely enough, the grappler seems to be engulfed in green flame, not unlike Garreg Mach’s present state, its painted KRNYA label peeling severely. As soon as Dimitri has confirmed the sight, he sprints off the bridge, activating his suit along the way.

“Such energy,” Claude chuckles, but the sound lacks fervor. He looks to Edelgard, gesturing in Dimitri’s direction. She looks resigned to follow suit. The numbers can wait. “Shall we also suit up?”

Powered down, the professor’s ship sits lightless and silent on RELIC-3’s inner docks. Workers quickly set a safety perimeter around the orange grappler as they move closer. Claude is about to try an emergency override when Dimitri simply pries the sealed main doorway apart with his hands. Claude’s forte is not in strong gravity manipulation and brute physical strength, but they work, he supposes. Since most of the doors leading to the pilot’s helm are shut, Dimitri ends up forcing open a passage for them anyways.

They find the professor unconscious and still strapped into his seat. His hair glows in the darkness, shimmering like starlight. Claude hurries to disentangle the safety belts, hyperaware of the tension in the air. There is a disconcerting aura around the professor, not quite visible, but Claude feels something distinctly alien; his skin wouldn’t feeling it is going to slough right off his bones otherwise. 

“I don’t think we have ever had to take the professor’s vitals before,” says Edelgard, crowded around the professor’s bedside. “And I am not informed on the extent of your medical training. Everything else seems to be fine, but in any event, the lack of heartbeat is somewhat… _ concerning_. ” The way her voice curves around the word suggests she is worried, and also most curious.

“It’s uh, normal,” says Claude. “It’s always been like that.”

“You didn’t think to tell us?” Dimitri’s voice pitches upward slightly. Though the hectic pace has slowed down now that they have found the professor safe and sound, he eyes the vitals hologram like it is going to burst into flames at any moment. Where heart rate should be is but a flat line.

Shrugging, Claude shifts uneasily on his feet. “It was never really relevant? It’s not like the professor makes a habit of telling us his secrets.”

“But he told you,” Edelgard says to Claude, who winces.

“I mean, yes. Kind of.”

Claude feels two sets of eyes burning holes into him and laughs nervously. Just as it seems Edelgard is going to interrogate the information out of him, Hubert slips into the room, flanked by Dedue. The infirmary on this fortress is not small by any means, but six people in one cubicle is just a bit crowded.

“Your Highness.” Hubert salutes, nearly hitting Claude in the face with the motion. “Just an update on the curiosity surrounding the grappler: We have discovered more vital signs inside, but the green fire makes it inaccessible. It is interesting to note that the frequency is the same as the one surrounding Garreg Mach at present; Linhardt verified the numbers.”

Edelgard glances at the professor, frowning. 

[WE ARE HEADING BACK TO THE MAIN STATION], Rhea says suddenly, her presence flaring bright on the vital monitors. She sounds oddly _ happy_; Claude hasn’t heard that tone from the AI for along time. Not since the first time Byleth came to the station.

“Headmaster Rhea,” Edelgard says. “What_— _”

[I AM PUTTING YOU IN CHARGE OF NAVIGATION, EDELGARD. DO NOT HYPERJUMP UNTIL WE CAN CONFIRM THE PROFESSOR’S CONDITION IS STABLE.]

Tersely, Edelgard nods. “Understood.”

[YOU MAY RETURN TO YOUR STATIONS.]

Everyone shuffles out of the infirmary in silence. Once it is empty save for the professor’s body and Rhea, her glow grows harsher, filling the holodisplay is so all the information disappears. It is so fierce that it washes Byleth’s features out into smooth, endless viridian.

* * *

By the time RELIC-3 reconnects with the main body again, Byleth is conscious and roaming the halls. Most people have retired to their sleep cubicles, but some have a hard time sleeping. He had woken to a green glow so encompassing that for several moments he believed he had gone blind. Rhea’s lingering voice still sends shivers down his spine. The laughter in his mind is blessedly(?) silent.

[YOU ARE SAFE NOW.]

He avoids looking into a mirror, knowing that whatever has changed will unnerve him. Everything feels different. From the way the world seems to breathe around him down to what people say and what they do _ not_. From the way his mind feels so distant to the way he can think about needing to go someplace and soon find himself at the door, not remembering how he had gotten there.

As he walks the halls, Byleth stands awkwardly as people move past without noticing him. No one does until he speaks up or centers himself directly within line of sight. His voice feels strange, his tongue heavy as though talking is simply too clumsy and ineffective in getting his message across.

“Yes, have a good night, sir!” A patrolling guard salutes him. Starts walking away mid-conversation.

Byleth does not remember saying good night. Only remembers vaguely thinking about it.

He makes his way down to quarantine levels, bothered by something he can sense but not knowing what. Thick, signal-jamming barriers separate the observers and whatever is stored in the cell, though it does not appear as such with the holodisplay spanning the entire wall. Hanneman, so focused on reading a report, nearly jumps out of his skin when Byleth clears his throat.

“Professor!” He exclaims on reflex. Upon taking a better look at Byleth, his brows furrow. “You are feeling… all right? I had only heard the reports but to see the results in person...” He stares at Byleth’s hair, giving him a purely scientific once-over. It is obvious from his body language that he so badly wishes to ask more questions regarding the nature of the change.

“I feel fine,” Byleth says. “I heard there was a ship in quarantine. The grappler that I engaged with. I wanted to see it myself.”

Nodding vigorously, Hanneman holds up his holoscreen, scrolling through all sorts of charts and graphs that Byleth does not understand but also… does.

“It’s in temporal stasis,” he blurts, and knows it to be true.

Surprised, Hanneman looks at him then back at the reports. He mutters under his breath and he runs through equations and theories and hypotheses and conclusions. “Why,” he exhales. “Yes. Yes, temporal stasis would explain everything! This is an absolutely astounding marvel! I _ must _ get more data on the ship and run more tests on—” He pauses, then, turning slowly to stare at Byleth. “Professor, how did you know?”

_ I’m the one who did that_, he almost says. Now facing the familiar ship and remembering the endless, endless void, he understands, with terrifying clarity, what has happened. To the ship, and to him. His throat clicks when he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “It was… a guess. Based off your data.” Hanneman opens his mouth to ask another question. Byleth can _ feel _ the _ what-do-think-triggered-the-temporal-stasis-what-else-do-you-know _ and reels back. “I,” he says, inhaling sharply. “I, I have to go.”

* * *

In the wake of the professor’s return, most of the station returns to its prior activity in analyzing the Dead Zone and delegating roles and patrols and giving Claude never-ending piles of screenwork. A lot of it is unrelated to the immediate concerns and more to do with Almyran relations, which does not make it unimportant, but well. He finds it difficult to concentrate on his duties when Byleth has been outright avoiding him.

The first time Claude _ really _ sees the shift in Byleth is when he catches the professor listing about in the Observatory. He is facing the wide chroma window, a thousand-click stare out into the starry unknown. Doing nothing in particular, suspended mid-air, eyes wide open and flickering with more colors than Claude would ever think possible in the color spectrum.

Byleth watches, detached, wandering as an unseen ghost within abandoned halls and fraying circuitry. He overhears the march of gravity boots over the metal floors in the station, the sharp note of blade, the heavy and unbearable rumble of an oppressive red crushing him under heel. Some gold-haired organic horror strung up on photon-poles, pierced through the eyes. Headless machines, shattered stars, a whisper from the dead; something roaring in the back of his mind, dark and ancient and—

“Teach,” Claude says softly. There is no response. Hesitating, he reaches out a hand to tap Byleth on the shoulder. “Hey, Byleth?”

Time unfreezes. Cold air snaps back to normal temperature and Byleth drops right into Claude’s unprepared arms. The two of them fall in an ungraceful heap to the floor, but while Claude is trying to recover from the sudden catch, Byleth has already scrambled to his feet. His weapon cube is half-materialized, flaring such an intense red that his skin looks painted with fresh blood, dripping onto the floor in streaks of light. His expression is pinched, severe. It takes several seconds before he recognizes Claude.

Alive, unharmed, wearing an uneasy grin. No weary wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.

“Claude,” he says, and stows his weapon cube quietly. “What are you doing here?”

Still sort of kneeling on the floor, Claude almost laughs incredulously. He gives Byleth a concerned look. “Me? I came to check up on you, see how you were adjusting.” He gestures to the spot in the air where Byleth had been floating just moments before. He is trying so, so hard not to stare. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that trick before.”

“…I have not,” Byleth admits. He blinks slowly and turns his head to look at his surroundings, feeling as though he is seeing something completely unexpected and out of the ordinary. The red glow in his hand dies down, retreating back into the gauntlet.

“Hey.” Claude stands and moves in close, pressing a palm to Byleth’s forehead. His other hand hovers unsurely above Byleth’s back. Armor is freezing against his skin. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

The touch shocks Byleth. He flinches but wills himself not to move away.

“I think,” he says carefully, “I just saw an alternate dimension.”

“Alternate dimension?”

“One in wartime. Edelgard was… Dimitri gone, and—”

Byleth pushes himself away, shaking his head. Arm still outstretched, Claude looks on helplessly as those haunted eyes flicker like stars and dust and everything in between. He sort of misses the old blank, empty gaze. “Everything was miserable. Stars,” Byleth gives a tired laugh. “My head hurts.”

Keeping his distance, Claude drops his arms and does his best to assume a non-threatening position. Clearly the trip through some wormhole or other nonsense has done more than anyone could possibly understand. He counts to twenty in his mind before speaking up again. “You’re here, Byleth,” he says softly. “I don’t know what you saw, and I can’t understand it, but.” He gives a dramatic shrug, noting that Byleth’s full attention is on him. In any other circumstances he would preen at it. “Well. The important thing is that we have you back. We’re all glad that you’re here.”

Claude does not say it, but Byleth can _ feel _ it in the air. _ I’m glad you’re here_.

“I need to do something about the ship in quarantine,” Byleth says after a brief silence. “I kind of ran out on Hanneman the last time I was down there and don’t really want to face him after that.”

“Far as I know, Edelgard is in charge of managing that project. You shouldn’t need to worry about it.” Claude says this not because he enjoys filling whatever role he gets assigned, but because he knows Byleth’s relationship with that ship in particular is beyond personal.

Byleth shakes his head. “She is brilliant, yes. But it isn’t something that she can solve. I have to do it.”

“If you’re up to it,” Claude sighs. “I will help in any way I can. When is the last time you slept?”

For several long seconds, Byleth blinks furiously as he tries to remember. He eventually trains his eyes on Claude. “Before I woke up.”

A standard week ago. Stars.

Moving closer, Claude presses his palm against Byleth’s forehead again. “No caffeine injections? None of Lorenz’s guaranteed 60-hour energy serums? None of Shamir’s freaky meditation techniques? Raphael’s stars awful meal solutions?”

Byleth laughs, his teeth glinting needle-sharp. “No! No, none of those. I just haven’t felt the need to sleep.” He frowns after saying this; he has thought about how sleep did not feel natural anymore, but now that Claude is here to remind him it worries at his mind again. When he looks at Claude, he can see the reflection of his eyes, nova-bright pinpoints in the calm of wide pupils. 

Claude’s smile fades slightly, but he takes small comfort in how Byleth does not move away this time. He eventually manages to convince Byleth to pull together an impromptu task force to visit quarantine. Professor Hanneman had mentioned something about temporal stasis and correlations and a lot about a disruption in the space-time continuum which completely go over his head. Byleth has not said anything regarding his visit to quarantine, so there is a nine out of ten chance that Hanneman’s ramblings are about Byleth’s change.

Despite his former students’ wishes, Byleth requests to enter the quarantine cell by himself.

“You do not have to face this alone,” says Dimitri, clearly upset.

“I am more than capable of handling whatever may transpire,” adds Edelgard.

Silently, Claude observes the tension in Byleth’s shoulders. There is none of the telltale anger that comes with revenge-so-close. None of the lost sorrow that has been plaguing his profile for the better part of this past week. If anything, there is but a deep, weary resignation of _ knowing_.

Without another word, Byleth enters the sanitation bay, door shutting behind him with finality. The three of them can do nothing but wait until the security panel clears.

The 3D simulation space flickers around them. Cameras from all around the quarantine cell broadcast with glaring precision the professor’s every movement and breath as though he were a mere few paces in front of them. Byleth sets a hand gently on the hull of the grappler ship, unaffected entirely by the green fire. The data extraction glove pulled snug around his hand sparkles with silver circuitry.

“Playback the cause of shut down,” he says. His voice sounds small, swallowed up by the soundproofed walls. The glove twinkles, flashing for several seconds before the entire room darkens. Fiery green dissipates and the grappler ship’s debris pull back neatly into the main body. An endless black pools at Byleth’s feet. A single, vibrant orange line extends from the grappler and behind the observers, passing so close to Claude’s face that he almost tries reaching out to touch the simulation.

Two more orange lines, harsh, colorful interruptions against the smooth emptiness. The professor’s grey ship hurtling into the darkness, disappearing as though sinking into a black sea. A single long moment passes as the orange ship retracts its grapplers, then crumples inward upon itself, sinking the way its prey had.

The simulation ends. 

Byleth stalks towards KRNYA’s cockpit, ungloved hand extended. He feels something very much alive frozen within the ship. He wants the green fire to stop, so it does, and the moment it disappears the air trembles with a terrible, bloodcurdling scream. Though his ears ring from the noise, he continues with his hand outstretched. The door rends apart, KRYNA peeling away as though titanium integrity and architecture are recoiling in terror.

Before him is a woman, and not a woman. Pallid, smoking and sparking like a storm, an unfathomable, boundless entity howls. It spills forth from the broken fuselage in a torrent of voidlight. It is confessing something dreadful, Byleth realizes, that he now understands.

[HOW DARE YOU RETURN. DAMNED FELL STAR. YOU _ DAMNED _ FELL STAR.]

He feels the space around him grow cold, shifting and writhing as time stretches its fingers around what remains of KRYNA and its vessel. All at once Byleth can see its fear and the quivering blueshift of its chains as he draws closer. It is awful to see. He closes his eyes and wills it away. When he next opens his them, the grappler ship is devoid of smoke and spitfire unknown. The edges of the ship, reft in half, glow white-hot and molden. A terrible and empty core lays unmade, and Byleth’s hand hurts from clenching around the blinding red shard responsible.

One moment he is staring at the wreckage, and the next Byleth is standing outside of quarantine. He wavers in place as he raises his head. Stars in his vision, he stares at Claude, feeling lightheaded. He whispers before passing out: “Father, I killed her.”

* * *

The committee of some important group rambles in the background as Felix glares at the ceiling, irritated at the pace of negotiations. The meeting is going so slowly that they may as well be moving _ backward_. Out of the view of the hologram committee, he makes a rude gesture at Dimitri. No reaction, not even a glance at him. Pity.

“Thank you for being so patient,” Dimitri says once the meeting has concluded. There have been many cities throughout the system that are understandably concerned regarding defenses. Some have resorted to crowdsourcing supplies where they can, illegal weapons trade included. Many more are requesting that Fhirdiad send assisting forces _ just in case_. Faerghus is not necessarily the cleanest system in terms of black activity, but recent developments have certainly made the situation worse. “I wasn’t able to get concrete evidence of any blackmarket trade from the committee, but they did ask for a pretty substantial amount of energy ammunition.”

“Ashe oversees that region. I’ll tell him to tap into his network to sniff out the smugglers.”

“Oh,” Dimitri says, surprised but pleased that his advisor had been paying attention, despite all appearances.

“What,” Felix says.

Dimitri shakes his head, smiling. “What would I do without you, Felix.”

“Let the system be overrun with power hungry and corrupt bureaucrats.”

“Yes, yes I imagine so.” Yawning, Dimitri waves away the stacks of holoscreens hovering before him. As Felix watches, he signs off on another stack of screenwork before passing it off to Dedue for distribution to other departments. He looks gaunt and tired, and the fact that he is not afraid to show this weakness has Felix feeling strange.

“You’ve been awake for over three days,” Felix says after the doors close behind Dedue. “And that was the last meeting scheduled for today. You should sleep.”

The advice seems to take a while to get into Dimitri’s head. He blinks slowly while processing this information. “It’s still daytime,” he says, glancing at the windows just to make sure.

“Your last full REM cycle was 80 hours ago. You can’t lie to me,” Felix says, glaring sharply as Dimitri is about to protest. “Pacing for hours in the darkness of your chambers does not count as _ sleep_, boar.”

“I didn’t know you monitored me in my sleep,” says Dimitri.

“I—I do _ not _ monitor you in your sleep.” Felix glowers down at Dimitri, leaning forward with his hands planted on the table. “Take this seriously. The staff at GMS are still studying the anomalies. Sylvain is still guarding the outer system fortress. Fhirdiad is swamped with people seeking better infrastructure and a home away from danger. If you aren’t well rested and in your right _ mind _to handle these responsibilities—”

“Felix,” Dimitri says.

He scowls. “Don’t _ Felix _ me, boar. You’re slipping. You’ve _ been _ slipping since before our return to Fhirdiad.”

A few days ago, the quarantined ship had been reported neutralized. Professor Byleth, ever mysterious, has resumed his duties with nary a hint of what exactly had transpired, but Felix knows that Dimitri had seen everything. Or at least enough to lose sleep over it. The Sreng ships have yet to show signs of retreating, and the Dead Zone is not growing but is _ there_. Faerghus remains flanked by an old threat and greeted by the unknown. Felix hates how the entirety of the system is so scared, threatening to overbalance at the slightest hint of danger. He hates especially how Dimitri turns a blind eye to everything, instead turning inward to rot in his own graven thoughts.

WIth a long, considering look, Dimitri leans closer, chin propped casually on his knuckles. Felix freezes in place, enraptured by the lambent blue incandescence so close.

“You may be right,” Dimitri says unblinkingly. “I have certainly felt the strain from duties. Dedue is most helpful in those regards, but you always keep me on my toes.”

“No one else can,” he replies, not liking the way his voice shakes.

“The nights I train with you,” Dimitri says, “I am often tired enough to sleep without trouble.”

Felix finds himself again, leaning away slightly. He scowls. “You will have to find something else to lull you to sleep. Unlike _ you_, I have duties outside of wearing a mask for the public.” Dimitri stands, then, and Felix reflexively takes a step back from the motion. The glow in Dimitri’s eyes has not diminished any, and he rather feels like a marked target. For just a brief moment, Dimitri’s Signature seems to wrap around his skull in a lightning-quick halo. Considering. Judging.

“I think I will try and get some sleep.” He tilts his head, locks of hair falling past his eyes. “Will you join me for sparring later?”

“Don’t waste my time,” Felix says, and leaves before his thundering heart can claw out of his chest.

* * *

As though Byleth’s encounter with the Dead Zone had been the trigger, scanners note an increase in aberrant activity around the Dead Zone locale. More specifically, forces they have never seen before. Several patrols have come back with reports of crossfire. The patterns suggest that the strange ships are not inherently hostile.

_ No response to broadcasts, _ One recent report notes. _ Patrolman Ignatz attempted communications on all frequencies available on standard SHF/EHF dials_ . _ Unidentified ships opened fire upon clear visual of friendlies_.

“I have reason to believe that these ships simply don’t have the facilities to receive our broadcasts,” Claude says, later meeting with Byleth to discuss strategy. He is excited, chattering as he goes through the notes and recordings of several encounters. “Seems impossible, I know. All ships nowadays have standardized requirements; even the lowest-grade ships can receive broadcasts. But!”

“But,” Byleth repeats.

“Here, look here.” Claude pulls over a holoscreen that breaks down the visual of the unknown ships in painstaking detail. A quick analysis of the ship integrity and design shows marked differences between the ones they use now. “These are outdated designs. This particular ship would be the, hmm, great-great-great-_ great _ predecessor of the SA-5 series we use now.” He waves over another screen which displays an image of his own ship, SA-5EUM. While the overall shape differs, the photon oars and scale-armor are almost identical.

Suddenly, a vision of the ship in the image overtakes Byleth’s mind. Yellow photon oars, crackling plasma around the mounted dragon head that faces a limitless haze of green. Streaking red comets. When his vision returns, Claude eyes are focused on him, his brows drawn tight.

  
“I’m fine,” Byleth says, not remembering when they had starting sitting so close. He can feel the warm line of Claude’s leg against his own, but does not move away from it. “I just saw something.”

“Your eyes were doing that thing again,” Claude says, smiling softly. There are moments it is obvious that he wants to pry, especially since the quarantine incident. He never does. “Nothing bad?”

“I saw that ship.” He gestures at the holoscreen. “Fighting something. I don’t know what.” Closing his eyes, Byleth attempts to resurrect the memory of the ship gliding through a sea of stars, in flames, bright in its destruction as it lists away into a field of debris. It is not the only one to meet such a fate. It is only one of hundreds, perhaps thousands. From a great distance, they would appear as a gentle, slow-moving red wave.

“You don’t need to force yourself,” Claude says as Byleth starts scrolling through more reports. “Everyone is focused on the defensive as a collaborative effort, so we have time to piece everything together.”

“Right.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” says the expert tactician. He grins winningly, patting Byleth on the knee. “But you can trust me on that. Things are serious if even _ Edelgard _ is working with us, and her efforts will surely help us get things done.”

Byleth takes a brief pause from the reports to tap Claude’s hand. _ Will also talk to Rhea later_, Byleth writes. _ Found something in diary_. _ Hid it in your dock. Retrieve when you can_.

“I like the way you think,” Claude says finally. “Among other things. But there are certainly things we still know little about.”

_ Can see her_.

Claude stiffens. A common legend that circulates among the GMS academy students is the one of Rhea having once been a living, breathing human. One that had later integrated into the station’s systems to become the AI that Rhea is today. Like many rumors, it is hard to pinpoint where the idea had stemmed from, but Byleth is beginning to see some truth to this one. To anyone else, a vague ghost wandering the station might be a hallucination. These visions, he knows, have much to do with what he has become.

On occasion, Byleth privately experiments with the green fire. Freezing and unfreezing mechanical clocks. Winding them backward several hours with a simple wave of his hand. Once, finding himself outside of the station and completely fine, blanketed in verdant shift that Rhea has called a _blessing_. Simply willing himself into another place will take him there, provided he knows what he wants. Thoughts and motivations of others, too, come to him in formless whispers that he can interpret as feelings. 

_ Thank you for telling me_, Claude finally writes back. He is smiling in the way Byleth has come to realize means that he is inordinately pleased that Byleth is confiding in him. _ Will go now_.

And in the inevitable rush of hearing the universe breathe when he is alone, Byleth does his best not to succumb. 

Though he has admitted to seeing Rhea’s apparition, he has not yet told anyone of the consistent nightmares. He has gotten better about parsing the details, understanding the cause and correlation, but still cannot tell whether they are nightmares or true happenings. At the very least, his body does not seem to require large amounts of sleep anymore, so he tries to avoid it and spends time exploring the station.

“Rhea,” he says to the empty Observatory. “Am I dead?”

[NO.]

“Am I alive?”

[NO], says Rhea. Byleth knows her true voice now. What sounds as a mechanical human imitation to the others is a deep, terrifying and ancient language that is more than a language. In Rhea’s voice is an unfulfilled longing and love and hatred unending; it is a chorus of voices rendered silent through separation and time and red tragedy. At the very least, she has been more receptive to his questions that have acceptable and vague human answers.

[YOU ARE… SPECIAL.]

_ ours-ours-and-returned-our-beginning-future-and-end-our-beginning-will-you-not-remember-us-ours-dearest? _

“How do we get rid of the Dead Zone?”

[FROM THE REPORTS, WE CAN CONCLUDE THERE IS A FAMILIAR POWER RETURNING. YOU MUST VANQUISH IT.]

_kill-them-kill-them-kill-destroy-take-back-our-red-seal-them-with-red-death-death-death-righteous-judgment? _

“What have I become?” he asks again, hoping for a different answer. The human translation varies every time, but the voices do not.

[YOU HAVE SIMPLY WOKEN UP], Rhea says. [YOU ARE YOUR TRUE SELF.]

_red-blue-novae-death-universe-dreadful-hideous-god-star-creator-dichotomy-monstrosity-monstrosity-monstrosity-monstrosity-monstrosity-monstrosity-monstrosity-monstrosity _—

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> sylvain: if i hit this object w enough force to leave the gautier planetary orbit, maybe itll break past fraldarius orbit and become a comet there and hit ur house  
felix: coward. ive already hit smth hard enough to leave both orbits and its heading to fhirdiad Right Now  
ingrid, over radio comm: unless ur hitting a whole ass rock w enough density it would literally BURN UP in the atmosphere and not hit anything u guys. stop trying to kill dimitri from the other starsdamned end of the system u gUYS


End file.
